


wine-drunk & running from the night itself

by intergaylactic



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, also dracula, and then we hook up, anyway, bc i love her, i wanna turn up to a gothic castle in the rain and have a hot vampire answer the door, so u know that tumblr post that says, the one with winona ryder, this is based on that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 21:46:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18819649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intergaylactic/pseuds/intergaylactic
Summary: renowned magical researcher and writer, simon lewis, has piqued the interest of rogue vampire clans that roam the forests and mountains near magnus bane's latest downworld gala, much to his horror. at the same time, he can't seem to stop coming across a particular non-rogue vampire, who is always ready to step in to his rescue when need be - and the need is really, really be right now.“We also wouldn’t have to kill you. You of all people should know about vampiric abilities - do you think we couldn’t stop you without resorting to murder? All we’d have to do is lock you in here -”“I can pick a lock. I could break the door down.”Raphael’s eyes narrowed, and the crinkle between his brows deepened. Simon couldn’t help but notice it, wanted to smooth it out with his fingertip, unmarr the marble of his skin. “Then we’d catch you - you know vampires are unnaturally strong - and we’d simply have to tie you up, probably only by the wrists, to keep you from being a threat -”“And if I cut the rope?”“Are you trying to justify your own murder to me?”". . . No."





	wine-drunk & running from the night itself

**Author's Note:**

> whoa a fic that mallow finished in less than a year?? wild. anyway this is ridiculous and self-indulgent. it's maybe going to be a series. i might have a part two already being written. i might write other fics within this au. i'm maybe getting in over my head. i may have used too many ellipses. 
> 
> anyway i haven't seen any of shadowhunters past s1 so like take this i guess

“These mountains are beautiful.”

 

“Did you know that on average thirty eight people go missing here every year due to bear and mountain lion attacks?”

 

Clary’s gaze shifted from the window of the rumbling carriage to Simon, who was sitting across from her and trying not to let his nervousness bubble to the surface of his expression.

 

“Thank you, Simon, for that. The mountains seem even more stunning knowing that we’ll all likely die out here.”

 

“I was just doing some research!” Simon shot back at Jace, who was reclining next to Clary and grinning wolfishly at him. “There are also a . . . I mean, quite a lot of vampires, in this area. Rogues, a lot - quite a lot of rogues.”

 

“Mhmm,” Jace nodded, still grinning; Simon just rolled his eyes. “Alec? Simon’s worried about rogue vampires again.”

 

“Again?” Simon echoed, indignant. “How often do I have this very specific fear? I’ve never even been in this region before.”

 

“Lewis.” Alec’s voice was flat, his eyes bored. Simon braced himself for the scolding. “There won’t be any vampire attacks. Stop worrying everyone.”

 

“Thanks, Alec, I feel much safer now,” Simon shot back. “You’re as reassuring as ever.”

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

Clary sighed, placing her hand lightly over Simon’s on the seat between them. Simon could see Jace watching their hands out of the corner of his eye, and he suppressed an eye roll; his protectiveness of Clary was beginning to get exhausting.

 

“Simon,” Clary said. “We’ll all be fine. If there are any rogues, we know how to handle them. It’ll be fine.”

 

“. . . Yeah. You’re right.” Simon, stubborn as he was, knew when to let something go with Clary; insisting on their impending death wasn’t going to do any good.

He would just have to worry on his own.

 

It wasn’t long before their carriage was pulling into the long, winding gravel drive of a grand estate. The manor house, a structure of dazzling white and stormy gray and burnished gold, was surrounded by the towering silhouettes of the mountain forest. Several other carriages rested further down the drive, and lavishly-dressed guests spilled out of the wide front doors.

 

“Oh, are you joking . . .” Alec muttered as they all stepped out of the carriage; he was glaring at a pure white peacock, strutting around the rosebush-dotted lawn. Simon counted at least three others in sight.

 

“It is one of Magnus’ galas,” Isabelle said, grinning. “Are you that surprised?”

 

“. . . No.”

 

Simon couldn’t seem to keep his nerves or gaze in check as the five of them made their way up the drive and into the manor house; his heart hammered in his chest, and his head snapped every which way as he took in the magical guests all around him.

 

“Welcome to the Rhaetian Alps, angels.”

 

Magnus was standing perfectly in the center of the manor’s entrance hall, arms spread wide, a goblet of shimmering, smoking wine already in one hand. A chandelier the size of their carriage glittered high above their heads, comprised of thousands of bright, dangling crystals and burning candles. The light caught on the golden accents of Magnus’ robe, glinted off his bracelets.

 

“Did you - were you just standing here, waiting to do this?” Simon asked, after handing his coat to a fluttering, purple-skinned attendant. “The posing, and everything?”

 

Magnus’ eyes flashed to Simon’s, and he let out a heavy sigh. “Are you going to tell me that humans are _opposed_ to a healthy bit of melodrama now? Hmm?”

 

“Just curious,” Simon said, shrinking back a few inches to stand behind Clary and Isabelle. “You know, just wondering.”

 

“Hmm,” Magnus simply repeated, before his gaze landed on Alec, who had finally managed to wrest his leather satchel from the two attendants flitting around him, agitated. “Alexander!”

 

Alec’s head snapped to the side so quickly, Simon felt a moment of sympathy for his neck. He flushed for just a moment before recovering with a hard cough and a somewhat breathy, “Oh, Magnus. Hello.”

 

“It’s good to see you,” Magnus continued. He more glided than walked toward Alec, a broad grin spreading across his face, lighting up his vivid green eyes. “I’ve missed you, Alexander.”

 

“It’s been two months,” Alec said. He seemed rooted to the spot, eyes trained on Magnus’ approaching figure. Simon couldn’t tell if he wanted Magnus to get closer or if he wanted to run deep into the mountains.

 

“And two months is far too long, angel.”

 

Magnus whirled around to face the rest of their party, gesturing to the door to the great hall. “Off you go, all of you! This is a party, and it’s a travesty that none of you have drinks yet! Especially you,” he added, pointing a thin, glittering finger at Simon. “You need to enjoy yourself - the negative energy coming off your aura is _exhausting_.”

 

“Auras aren’t real, Magnus, we’ve talked about this -” Simon began, but Jace cut in with a smirk.

 

“Simon here is staying sharp in case any rogue vampires come out of the woods to murder us.”

 

“ _Oh_.” Magnus’ eyebrows raised, and something in his eyes softened slightly; Simon felt oddly naked under that gaze, knowing exactly what Magnus knew that Jace did not. He knew what that look meant, and he flushed, embarrassed.

 

“You need to _relax_ , my adventurous honeycomb,” Magnus said, giving him a sweeping gesture towards the great hall. “Have some fun, socialize, it’s _good_ for you. Let _me_ worry about the vampires.”

 

“He’s right,” Clary agreed, taking Simon by the crook of his elbow and pulling him towards the great hall. “Let’s try to just enjoy ourselves.”

 

Simon nodded at Magnus as he and Clary vanished into the party. The steadiness of Magnus’ gaze gave him a moment of reassurance before he was plunged into the aristocracy of the supernatural world.

 

* * *

 

 

_Enjoy the party_ Magnus had said. _Relax, have some fun, socialize, it’s good for you_. Simon had, despite his reservations about taking Magnus Bane’s advice on things that were and were not good for one’s health, decided to trust in this idea.

 

It was listening to Magnus that he therefore blamed his current predicament on.

 

He had only drifted for a moment, glancing away from the monster-hunting conversation between his friends and some other guests for just a second to carefully choose a canape and exchange tentative smiles with a wizened sorcerer passing by. When he turned back around, however, Clary, Isabelle and the warlock they had been debating with had vanished, leaving him utterly alone by the refreshment tables.

 

But . . . socializing. Maybe this was his opportunity to strike out on his own for once at one of these fancy magical galas, with no protective monster-hunting friends to be supervising his every move. Simon needed to just move, just start moving and start talking. Prove himself in the supernatural socialite scene. He could do this.

 

Pouring himself a generous helping of a sparkling white wine whose bubbles popped and sounded like tinkling bells, Simon began to weave his way through the grand hall. He spotted a pair of men and a woman seated by the enormous hearth, eyes shining reflective golden in the firelight. Werewolves. Simon slipped onto a nearby sofa as casually as he could muster, facing the trio with a cautious smile at the ready.

 

“Hello,” Simon began awkwardly; three pairs of those reflective eyes turned to him, and he felt his heart clench under the power of those gazes. “I - I was just looking for a spot to sit down, and if it’s alright with you -”

 

“Oh,” interrupted the woman; her eyebrows lifted to her hairline in surprise, and she adjusted the flowing onyx skirt of her gown as he turned to fully face him. “You’re a human.”

 

“What?” The man to her left glanced between her and Simon, confused, and gave the air in Simon’s direction a delicate sniff. “Huh. Bizarre.”

 

“Yeah,” Simon laughed, more a rush of air then a word, “I’m a friend of Magnus’. Magnus Bane. Mr. Bane. Lord Bane the Warlock. Magnus “the Warlock” Bane -”

 

“We’ve got it, darling,” the woman said with a chuckle, extending an immaculate, claw-tipped hand. “Leila Grainger. Werewolf - but I’m sure you knew that.”

 

“Yes, I - I did sort of figure that out - I’m Simon Lewis.” They shook hands; hers were every bit as soft as they looked. Her two companions - also werewolves - introduced themselves with similar formality.

 

Leila took a long, slow sip from her goblet, which had clouds of silvery steam drifting from its lip, framing her face. The firelight gleamed off her almond eyes, and she spun her fine black hair with her free hand, clawed nails delicately untangling the strands. “So you’re a friend of Magnus’?”

 

Simon nodded, gulping down half of his own drink in one go. Hopefully it would loosen the knots in his stomach as he spoke. “I am - tangentially. Friend of a friend of a sibling of a lover.” Leila’s eyebrows rose once again, and Simon nervously laughed off his own rambling. “I - yes, I definitely know Magnus.”

 

“And, if you don’t mind my asking, why exactly is a human travelling with a group of demon-hunters and monsters?” Leila gave a sardonic half-smile, her head tilted curiously as she regarded Simon. “You don’t seem to be a particularly _athletic_ type.”

 

Simon laughed again, less nervous this time; he was enjoying the wine, the warmth it spilled into his twisted guts. “That’s probably because I’m not. I’m more of a . . . scholar? Student? Investigator?” He paused, searching for the right word. “I . . . I write about the supernatural, study demonology and magical creatures.”

 

“Creatures?” There was a bit of bite to the word Leila’s companion echoed.

 

“You know, non-sentient beings: kappas, unicorns, redcaps, will-o-the-wisps. That sort of thing.”

 

“Well, that’s just _fascinating_ , darling,” Leila said. She leaned forward, cupping her chin in her hand, eyes trained intently on Simon. “We’d just love to hear more - wouldn’t we?” She looked expectantly at her companions, who gave slow nods.

 

And so Simon talked. He was prompted into explanations of his career, his research, his writings, his travels. Leila continued to have Simon’s goblet refilled, the shimmering wine dancing down his throat as easily as breaths of fresh mountain air. The knots in his stomach had untied themselves almost completely, and Simon found himself turning into a giggling and sighing performer for the werewolf countessa.

 

“I think, Lewis, that we must be off, and that you ought to come with us,” Leila suggested at last, giving him a knowing smile. He smiled back at her, an airy peal of laughter drifting out of him. Was he getting giddy - a bit _too_ giddy? He wasn’t sure. He also wasn’t sure how much of that giggling wine he had drunk.

 

“I -” Simon paused to stifle another laugh, hardly able to keep his composure together, “- I think that would maybe be a really good and great idea, Leila. Definitely. Should find Clary.”

 

“Clary?”

 

“Clarissa,” he corrected himself; his cheeks felt sore from all the vacuous smiling he was doing. “Clarissa Fairchild. My monster-hunting friend. Magnus’ brother-in-law’s very good, absolutely-platonic companion.”

 

“Hmm.” Leila had her chin balanced on her palm, and was watching Simon with a face full of fascination. “Yes of course. Clarissa. Clary. Edmund can go find her for you, let her know where you’re going.”

 

Simon shook his head, lurching to his feet, nearly tripping over himself in the process. Leila’s companion reached out and steadied him, and Simon laughed and thanked him and laughed and thanked him again, just in case he hadn’t said it aloud the first time. The three werewolves were staring at him with three identical smiles, eyes shining in the firelight.

 

“I should go find her - make sure she’s okay!”

 

“That’s not necessary, Simon, dear -” Leila began.

 

“If I didn’t know any better,” Simon said slowly. “I’d think you were trying to steal me away.”

 

“Steal you? _We_ would _never_. But, well, you never know, around here.” Leila gave a delicate wave and shrug, chuckling darkly. “It’s been known to happen.”

 

“Huh.” Simon picked up his goblet from the table, which was half full of his third (maybe fourth?) cup of the wine. He took a gentle sip, let the bubbles dissolve gleefully on his tongue. “I hope it doesn’t happen tonight, I have plans this Thursday.”

 

“Oh?” Leila grinned at him, all flashing teeth and glinting jewellery. “Then that would be a tragedy.” She stood, brushing off her skirts, and held a hand out to Simon. “I promise I won’t let anyone steal you away.”

 

“I need to find Clary,” Simon simply said.

And Simon promptly spun around, tripped, and spilled his wine spectacularly down the front of a passing stranger.

 

The fall was magnificent, landing Simon flat on his face on the marble floor, limbs spread-eagled and spectacles skittering away from his reaching hands. The goblet clanged against the floor some distance away, empty and useless. Above him, Simon could hear someone spluttering.

 

He scrambled to his feet, nearly falling back down from the sudden dizziness. He stood straight up, opening his mouth to apologize to the victim of his clumsiness, when he realized that he couldn’t see them. He couldn’t see anyone, aside from the colourful smudges moving about the room: he had forgotten his spectacles.

 

“Sorry, hold on, I don’t -” Simon dropped to his hands and knees, reaching and feeling along the floor, before scooping up the familiar wire frames. He slipped them on as he stood, bouncing back onto his feet, a small, frantic laugh already on his lips.

 

“Okay, now I’m ready. I am so, so sorry . . .” Simon froze as his gaze roved over the man standing before him, and the two women flanking him on either side. There was no pallid skin or gauntness, no signs of any hunger - of course, they must have fed before they arrived. But their eyes gleamed with a wicked sort of darkness, their pupils seeming to swallow their own gazes whole; the razor tip of a fang pressed into one woman’s bottom lip as she smiled. “Vampires?”

 

He hadn’t meant for the word to come out quite that squeakily, and was even more taken aback when the smiling woman let out a high, silvery laugh.

 

“We are, darling,” she said, smirking at Simon’s rising panic. “Keen of you, to point it out like that. We’d nearly forgotten.”

 

“Oh.” Simon needed to say something. He needed to speak. Or move. Or regain control over his body in any conceivable way. He looked from the smiling vampire to the one standing in the center - the one he had spilled his glass of wine on. Oh. _Oh shit._

 

“I am so sorry, I wasn’t paying enough attention, and I just - sorry, please, I can - I’ll find a napkin, or  - or you can use my jacket, Mr., um - Mr. Vampire, sir -” He was stammering now, which was only marginally better than shocked silence. The vampire standing before him was still brushing his hands down the front of his sharp black clothes, and Simon couldn’t stop looking at the sharp tips of his slightly clawed nails. Not monstrous in appearance, more subtle than a werewolf or demon, the claws were almost feline in their translucent elegance. They were the most elegant things Simon had ever imagined ripping out his throat.

“Hello, Lady Grainger.”

 

Simon glanced over his shoulder, met Leila’s furious glare. She was looking right at the vampire in front of Simon, teeth slightly bared. “I’ve laid claim to this one.”

 

“And yet it doesn’t seem like you have, given how quick he was to escape your clutches,” the vampire retorted, gesturing to the wine stain on his front. “I also seem to recall the treaties looking down upon the kidnapping of humans.”

 

“Kidnapping? How dramatic.” Leila rolled her eyes, before gathering up her skirts in one hand, and linking her other to the arm of one werewolf companion. “We were just leaving, anyhow.”

 

And without another glance Simon’s way, Leila and her two companions swept from the hall, vanishing into the crowd.

 

“‘Mr. Vampire’?”

 

The cold, smooth voice that Simon heard made him jump, turning to stare directly into the man’s face for the first time, and he felt its chill spread through his stomach. There was the glint of golden brown gleaming somewhere in those eyes, reflecting the thousands of candlelights glowing in the hall, and his angular face was twisted in confusion.

 

“I - well, I guess that’s probably not your actual name, so I - I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so - so - so, you know, _reductive_ , or anything -”

 

“But you don’t know it?”

 

“Know what?” It was Simon’s turn to look confused, brow crinkling as the vampire regarded him.

 

“My name, human. You don’t know it?”

 

“Should I?”

 

The man paused for a long moment, watching Simon in a way that made him want to shrink, want to hide from the three of them, no matter if Magnus and Clary and the Lightwoods were there to protect him. He knew vampiric eyes when he saw them, and being scrutinized so intently by them made him feel like exposed prey. A lemming, perhaps, being chased down by a snowy owl, or a field mouse cornered by a particularly deadly fox.

 

“No,” the vampire said at last, the confusion melting from his face and being replaced by a slowly-growing smirk. “No, it doesn’t matter. Although I will ask you yours, if that’s alright.”

 

“Lewis,” he said, fighting to keep his voice steady. “Simon Lewis, I mean. Lewis is the surname. My surname. I mean, I suppose other people probably also have the same surname, even if we aren’t related, because it isn’t exactly uncommon as far as names go, but it’s also mine. After Simon. Which is my given name. Yours?” He said all of this in one jumbled breath; his lungs burned.

 

“My . . .?”

 

“Name?”

 

“Well, my given name is Raphael. I’m sure other people have that one, as well.” Amusement danced in Raphael’s eyes, and Simon managed to step a few inches away from the vampire trio. Progress. He could do this. He would survive this.

 

“And don’t worry about the wine, human,” Raphael added, giving the front of his suit a final swipe of his palm. “There are plenty of warlocks in this room who can magic it out of the fabric, I’m sure.”

 

“Oh, they’d be delighted to,” the smiling woman said, her gaze never leaving Simon. “As I am to make your acquaintance, Simon Lewis. I heard from a friend that a truly _fascinating_ scholar would be joining us this evening, and I’m glad she hasn’t been lying to me.”

 

“Scholar?” Simon breathed.

 

“Oh absolutely,” the vampire said, stretching out a hand. “Lily Chen, by the way. I’ve read some of your work, mostly on the non-sentient creatures of Scottish moors and lakes. I’ve always wanted to see them up close, but I’ve settled for living vicariously through you.”

 

Simon laughed weakly. The wine and panic had mingled terribly inside of him, leaving him lightheaded and baffled at just about everything. This vampire lady had read his work because she couldn’t go and see the Loch Ness Monster for herself? He wasn’t actively being attacked by this trio of vampires right this second, feeling their claws and fangs tear his body apart? And where was Clary?

 

“Are you alright, Lewis?” Simon’s attention was jerked back to Raphael, who was watching him with those gleaming dark eyes, brow furrowed.

 

“Me?” Simon pointed to himself, the tingling in his limbs and the slowness of his movements distracting him from the conversation again. “Yes, I’m . . . alright. Tingly.”

 

“Tingly?” Lily Chen’s smile had gone a bit lopsided.

 

“Yes, tingly,” Simon agreed, dropping his hand back to his side; it felt as though it was moving through syrup to get there. “My hands. I - I’m alright, aside from that. And the vampires.”

 

“Aside from the vampires?” The second vampire woman leaned forward to peer at Simon, face pinched in irritation.

 

_Oh God, he’d said that aloud._ “No?”

 

Raphael raised his eyebrows, and Simon hastily added, “I - I don’t know? Yes. I mean, the vampires - you - it’s fine. I’m alright.”

 

“So, you’re alright with us attending the party?” Raphael asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “I’m very glad for that.”

 

“I don’t - I mean, I really -”

 

“ _Relax_ , Lewis, I understand what you meant.”

 

“Oh.” Simon wondered if he was imagining the smirk dancing on Raphael’s lips.

 

“So, Simon, are you enjoying yourself?” Lily’s voice, bright and cheery, snapped Simon’s attention to the warm darkness of her eyes. “I saw you talking to Grainger back there - I’m sure she had some things to say.”

 

“Leila was nice,” Simon replied. He felt so small and uncertain under their scrutiny.

 

“I’m sure she was. She’s always _nice_ , isn’t she, Raphael?”  

 

There was a bite to Lily’s words that made Simon want to change the subject, despite being entirely lost on how to go about doing that. “The party’s nice - the wine is nice.”

 

“I can see how much you’re liking that wine in particular,” Raphael said, and there was that hint of a smile again. “And as for Leila . . . you may want to be careful with her, Lewis. She grows attached to humans quite easily. I - your hunter friends likely wouldn’t appreciate her stealing you away tonight.”

 

“. . . she said she doesn’t steal anybody.” Through the haze of giddy wine, Simon worked his way to a defense on Leila’s behalf. She had been so nice to him; she had asked him so many questions, had wanted to learn so much about him . . .

 

“Hm. Perhaps it’s best not to take everyone here at their word - even the fae will finds ways to lie to you, human.” Raphael, having folded the napkin into a perfectly neat triangle, placed it in Simon’s breast pocket, that sardonic smile playing on his lips once again. “Be careful among our kind, Lewis. You’re a . . . valuable commodity, you could say.”

 

He stepped back, still holding Simon’s gaze. Simon blinked back at him, reaching up to touch the napkin now in his pocket. “Commodity? That’s - that’s not a nice thing to call a person.”

 

“No, it really isn’t.” Lily leaned forward to say something to Raphael, her voice low enough that Simon couldn’t hear. Raphael nodded, before giving his suit one final swipe with his hands. “We have business elsewhere now, but remember that, Lewis: be careful.”

 

And with that, the vampire trio turned and glided away into the hall, Lily tossing Simon a smile and wave over her shoulder as they went. Simon waved back, the tips of his fingers still tingling.

 

He turned around, feeling very tired, and caught Leila’s eye from across the hall. She smiled at him, gesturing him to return to her side. Her companions smiled beside her, watching Simon in a way that seemed suddenly colder, hungrier. He turned his gaze away, looking out into the crowd Magnus had gathered, so colourful and loud.

 

Where was Clary?  

 

* * *

 

 

Simon was very glad that magic wine did not come with terrible headaches.

 

He had found Clary after a few minutes of wandering, in a heated debate with another monster-hunter about the importance of the local peace treaties. She had reluctantly abandoned her crusade to catch up with Simon, only to be immediately overcome by worry upon discovering his exhausted, absolutely drunk state. She had ushered him upstairs, and insisted that he sleep in one of the estate’s many bedrooms. Simon relented, and let himself drift euphorically in and out of consciousness for a little over an hour. Magnus hadn’t minded lending him the spot to sleep, more entertained by Simon’s intoxicated antics than annoyed.

 

“He talked to Leila like this?” Clary and Magnus, who she had finally pulled out of a meeting with a local magical ally, watched Simon try and regain total feeling in his limbs by stretching them up to the roof of the four-poster he was occupying. He lost his balance and slumped to the side, nearly tumbling out of the bed. Clary had nodded once, solemn, and Magnus let out a delighted laugh. “Incredible.”

 

Now, the wine having worn off and the world coming back into focus, both visually and mentally, Simon was grateful for the lack of a headache, but brimming with mortification.

 

“I can’t believe I did that,” he said for the fifth time since they all clambered back into their carriage. Magnus had offered them rooms for the night, but Jace and Isabelle had found a pressing issue they were to investigate as soon as possible in a nearby city.

 

“I can,” Jace grinned from the seat across from Simon. “I can absolutely believe you would do something that stupid. It’s why we like having you around.”

 

“Oh, fantastic,” Simon muttered. He stared back out the carriage window, chin resting against his hand, elbow perched on the door handle. Everything about him felt precarious on that ride. “I’m relied on to be comedic relief in the background, making a fool of myself. Excellent.”

 

“What I think my brother means, Simon,” Isabelle cut in, giving Jace a sharp whack on the hand, “is that we value your - your humanity. You have no reason to follow the proprieties of our world, so you don’t, so we can live vicariously through you.”

 

“I still can’t believe you were talking to _Leila Grainger_ and you had no idea.” Alec sighed, in that recognizably Alec-like way of his. “You could have been kidnapped, and then there goes interspecies peace.”

 

“Oh, Simon didn’t destroy any treaties tonight,” Clary argued; she paused, looking back at Simon. “Right?”

 

“I doubt it,” Simon said, staring resolutely out the window at the forest and mountains they were speeding through. He hadn’t yet mentioned Raphael’s warning, which had likely kept him from falling into whatever scheme Leila had cooked up. “She mostly just asked about my writing.”

 

“Someone expressed interest in your writing, and that didn’t tip you off that something strange and deceptive was going on?” Jace sighed. “I suppose we can’t all be detectives.”

 

Clary had just turned to tell Jace off for his usual Simon-teasing, when their carriage jerked violently backward, tossing them every which way in the cabin, before slowing to a complete stop. Everyone righted themselves, retaking their seats, but no one made any unnecessary noise or movement. Alec had a hand raised, clearly a sign to keep quiet and alert. Jace and Isabelle were unsheathing their weapons, and Clary already had her blade drawn and at the ready. The sight of the gleaming silver brought Simon’s heartbeat to a nervous gallop in his chest. He withdrew his own knife, though smaller than those of his companions, more suited to self-defense in close quarters than to demonic battles.

 

“Someone needs to speak to the driver,” Isabelle whispered. “We need to find out what’s going on -”  

 

She was interrupted by the carriage window shattering.

 

The first thing to hit Simon was the wind, frigid and barrelling into him like a tangible force. The next was the shock and the sudden pain that stung his face and arm. He reached a shaking, numb hand to his cheek, and his fingertips came away stained with crimson. Glass shards littered the floor of the carriage, along with a huge chunk of stone that lay between Isabelle’s feet.

 

Simon glanced over at Clary, who turned to look back at him with wide eyes. Her gaze darted to his left and she shrieked, grabbing Simon by the shoulders and yanking him towards her as something struck the side of the carriage. It rocked sideways from the force, and Simon glanced over his shoulder to see a smile made of gleaming red lips, eyes dark as night staring back at him.

 

_Vampires_.

 

“Monster-hunters,” the vampire said, peering into the carriage through the broken window. He clung to the outside of the carriage like a monstrous bug, limbs stiff against the onslaught of the wind. “Lovely to meet you.”

 

“It really isn’t,” Jace said, lunging forward with his blade; it sank into the vampire’s chest, and he screeched. The sound was inhuman, and left every one of Simon’s hairs standing on end.

 

As he fell, the first vampire was replaced by a second, who glared at Jace with loathing strong enough to make even him grimace. Their carriage rocked again as another peered in through the opposite window, and there were menacing thumps on the roof. They were completely surrounded.

 

“So you are the monster-hunter _friends_ of Magnus Bane, yes?” The vampire spat the words at them, her voice venomous.

 

“And if we are?” Isabelle clutched her whip with a white-knuckled hand, her eyes locked with those of the leering vampiress.

 

“We will not allow any more of your imposed _peace treaties_ in our territory,” she said. “We are done with you.”

 

She leapt through the broken window, headed straight for Isabelle. Alec yelled, angling his blade for a defense, but a band of glittering silver had wrapped itself around the vampiress’ throat before he could finish his warning cry. Isabelle flicked her wrist, years of practice making the gesture easy and efficient, and the whip tightened. The vampiress’ hands leapt to her neck, pawing at the metal, hissing as it burned her fingers; she gave a single, strangled gasp, and her head dropped to the floor, thudding on the carpeted wood. Her body vanished into ash as quickly as her head had fallen.

 

That was when all hell broke loose.

 

The rest of the vampires - and, though none of them could get a clear headcount, there seemed to be many - began climbing the carriage, rocking it violently back and forth, until it gave way and tipped on its side, sending all five of them scrambling for footing. Jace dropped his blade in the fall, and Isabelle reeled in her whip just before it could nick Simon across the face. They tumbled around for a long moment, the world tilting, until they struck the ground. Moonlight poured in through the remaining window above them, illuminating the chaos as the four hunters hastily scavenged their weapons. Then the window shattered, raining glass down on their heads, as a pair of vampires leapt into the overturned carriage.

 

Jace was already on his feet, striking the first vampire to reach him with a sharp blow to the head, knocking him against the ceiling of the carriage. The other reached for Clary, who jammed a silver dagger into his outstretched palm; Isabelle curled her whip around his throat, and he was as good as dead before he could even think to gasp.

 

“Here!” Clary shoved a wooden stake into Simon’s hand, giving him a grim smile. “Just in case.”

 

“Right.” Simon nodded, clutching the stake and his satchel to his chest. “Got it. Just in -”

 

“Move!” Alec shoved both Simon and Clary to the side, banging them into the tilted floor, as another vampire dropped from the open window above them. Three more peered inside, readying themselves to attack next.

 

“We have to get out of here.” Alec began hacking at the carriage’s sideways ceiling, splintering the wood apart. After a moment of watching in his shocked stupor, Simon shoved himself against the battered ceiling, throwing all of his weight against the weakened wood. He and Alec both gave a shared leap at it, and Simon heard a magnificent crack split through the air. He felt himself falling, and then the cold of the gravel road.

 

The wind howled spectacularly as he and Alec stood, clearing the way for the others to fight their way out of the newly-formed exit. But as soon as they had freed themselves, more vampires had descended to the road, surrounding the two of them. Alec raised his blade, eyeing an advancing vampire. Without glancing at Simon, his voice cold and without room for discussion, he said, “You should probably run, Lewis.”

 

And run he did. With Clary tumbling out of the carriage behind them, a stake already raised in her fist and sinking into the chest of the vampire barrelling towards them, Simon darted out of the way of the next two vampires who charged forward. He wrapped the strap of his bag over his shoulder, across his chest, and held his own stake at the ready. He knew he wasn’t holding it properly, knew he wasn’t in a correct fighting stance, but the embarrassment that usually accompanied his mediocre fighting around his friends was absent. He had more important things to worry about - like surviving the night, in order to feel embarrassed about things the next day, and the rest of his (hopefully long) life.

 

“Oh, this one is _all_ human.” A voice from his right made Simon jump, tightening his grip on his stake and whirling to face the approaching vampire. The hunger in his wide, dark eyes as he took a dramatic sniff of the air made Simon shiver. “ _Frightened_ human, too. Lovely.”

 

“Is the sniffing strictly necessary?” Simon took a faltering step backward as the vampire advanced, stake at the ready and pointed directly at his chest. “It’s a little melodramatic, isn’t it?”

 

“Haven’t you heard, human?” He was still walking towards Simon, his face flat and cold. Simon was stumbling over the road, backing up as much as he dared. “Vampires enjoy a little melodrama from time to time.”

 

He darted forward so suddenly Simon hardly had time to react; the stake grazed his forearm as he dodged Simon’s strike, and he dragged a clawed finger down Simon’s throat. “I think we could keep you,” he hissed; his breath on Simon’s cheek was colder than the wind. “We haven’t had a pet in a whi-”

 

His ashes were gathered and tossed aside by the wind before he could finish the sentence.

 

“Simon, run!” Isabelle shouted, whip snaking back to her hand, her eyes wide and frantic. “Just run!”

 

Simon looked back to the wreckage of the carriage to see just how many vampires were left, and felt his heart catch in his throat. There were . . . too many. Clary and Alec stood back to back outside the exit, slashing at anything that got too close. Jace had one by the throat, stake en route to its heart; two more leapt onto him, dragging his hand back from its killing blow. Isabelle was already whipping around to face three more approaching them. Behind them, Simon could see more than a dozen darting out of the cover of the trees.

 

_Just run!_

 

He did.

 

“I’m going to find help!” Simon yelled, sprinting down the road as quickly as he could. How far was Magnus’ estate? He couldn’t remember exactly, but if he could reach it, he could scrape together some kind of cavalry. Anything to keep his friends from being brutally murdered on this desolate, snowy mountainside.

 

He heard the footfalls behind him, and cursed; of course some of them had heard him, would pursue him for what he’d claimed. He risked a glance over his shoulder and counted four on his trail. Simon wasn’t sure if he was imagining it, but he thought they looked hungry.

 

“You can’t outrun us!” One of the vampires jeered, and Simon felt a rush of air against his side as they lunged for him, hands swiping for his arm. He jerked out of the way, stumbling sideways, fear seizing his heart as he tried desperately not to lose his footing. He couldn’t afford to be slowed down for even a moment.

 

When the next vampire jumped towards him, this time aiming for his back, Simon was forced to make an uncoordinated swipe with the stake, arm swinging wildly behind him as he ran. The stake missed the vampire’s throat, leaving a shallow scratch along their chest as they fell forward, their body connecting hard with Simon’s. He tripped forward, crashing into the ground, and twisted out of the vampire’s reach - only to tumble over the side of the road, down the steep hillside it ran atop of.

 

Simon flew down the hillside, striking through underbrush and snow as he rolled and fell his way to the bottom, landing in a heap in the shallow creek that bubbled and rushed along the base of the hill. Scrambling out of the water despite the sting of his scratches and soon-to-be bruises, already chilled to the bone from the dampness of his clothes in the frigid wind, Simon saw the four vampires begin to make their way down the hillside after him.

 

So much for Magnus’ estate.

 

Simon turned and ran into the trees, bag and stake clutched to him as he panted and stumbled. His body felt numb with either cold or panic, he couldn’t tell which. The vampires were loud behind him, their yells and storming movements seeming to echo through the dense forest. He had to move faster, had to find somewhere to hide. Where could he hide?

 

He knew he couldn’t survive on his own, that was for sure. One vampire? Maybe. Two? A slight possibility. Four was near-certain death. But Magnus’ estate was so far away, and the nearest hamlet was barely closer. He needed to find shelter, somewhere to hide from the vampires and the cold that clung to him like a deadly second skin.

 

_I have other allies in the area, of course - the vampire clan that’s staying a few miles west of here is almost always helpful._

 

West. They had been heading west in the carriage. Simon wasn’t sure just how far they had gotten, but it had been far enough to get too far from Magnus’. He just needed a way to find the clan’s hideout, and then -

 

Then he would beg for them not to drain him on sight?

 

It was as good a plan as he was going to get.

 

Simon reached into his satchel, feeling around for a familiar crystal vial. The moment his fingers closed around it, he felt a breath of relief. He could do this.

 

“You’re damn fast for a human!” The yell of the vampire just a few feet behind him startled Simon, his feet skidding awkwardly over the uneven earth. “But I can’t let you -”

 

Simon wrenched the stopper out of the vial and tossed its contents over his left shoulder, praying that his aim was as good as it had been on another dark, vampire-infested night. The shriek of the vampire and the sizzle of scalded flesh answered his prayer, and Simon found the will to run faster. He could find this clan. He just had to keep running.

 

* * *

 

 

The castle rose in the distance like a vision from God.

 

Simon, exhausted and panting and ignoring the burning of his cuts in the freezing rain, ran forward, shoving open the wrought iron gates with significantly less decorum than perhaps a saving grace might warrant. He stumbled up the immaculate stone pathway that wound through a garden of flourishing evergreen bushes and the dead remains of last season’s annual flowers. The withered husk of old ivy vines clung to the slate grey walls of the castle. Lights flickered in some of the windows, sparkling far above Simon.

 

Not wanting to drop his bag or his stake, Simon ignored the doorknocker and banged his forearm against the heavy wooden doors of the estate. He whipped around to peer into the darkness of the gardens, the distant gate hazy in the falling sleet. He shivered violently, but held fast to the wooden stake in his hand. He could see vague, smudged figures at the gates, and heard the shout of one of the vampires. Not turning his attention from them, Simon kicked at the door, desperation bringing stinging tears to his eyes. He couldn’t die here, couldn’t die not knowing if his friends were alright.

 

He raised his foot and moved to kick the door again, but the sudden groan of old hinges made him leap away, startled. As the door swung open behind him, Simon saw the silhouettes of the vampires disappear from the gates. He held his stake still, confused.

 

“What could you possibly want at this hour?”

 

Simon, heaving deep, panicked breaths, turned to face the open doorway, and was met with a pair of familiar dark eyes.

 

Those eyes widened at the sight of him there, soaked and disheveled, covered in blood and twigs and dirt, clothes torn and wooden stake clutched in a shaking but determined hand.

 

“Oh,” Simon breathed, astonished to see the vampire from the gala in a loose nightshirt and trousers. He was lit by the dim moonlight alone, his eyes shining through the darkness. He was made of smudges and strokes of pale and shadow, the sharp angles of his face even more pronounced in the dimness. He looked like a statue, hand braced against the doorframe.

 

“Simon Lewis?” The vampire’s voice wavered slightly, betraying his confusion. “Is that your blood? Are you hurt? Why are you here?” His questions were not frantic, but short and to the point.

 

“Rogue vampires,” Simon panted. He wanted so desperately to lay down, to stop holding the stake. But he didn’t know where the rogues had gone, and that nagging sense of dread hadn’t stopped since they had vanished. “They - attacked the carriage. Clary, and the others, they’re - I’m not sure, they were fighting, but there were so many - I fell, tried to get to Magnus - they need help.”

 

“Rogue vampires?” Simon couldn’t quite make out his expression through the darkness, but heard the cold anger that seeped into his words. “Where did this happen?”

 

“On the road, maybe two miles that way.” Simon raised the hand that held his bag, gesturing towards the woods he had stumbled out of. “They just came out of nowhere.”

 

“They tend to do that, yes,” the vampire said. He stepped to the side, his shadowed face retreating into the darkness of the castle’s entrance. “Come inside, Lewis. We can help.”

 

Simon glanced over his shoulder, peering back into the nighttime gloom; nothing was moving beyond that fence. He turned back to the door and stepped inside, shivering in the draft that swept through the entrance hall.

 

The vampire swung the door shut behind him, plunging them both into a darkness so thick that Simon felt his heart stutter. He needed to see where he was, where he was going, where the vampires were - because he knew there were more of them somewhere in that castle, lurking in the shadows, maybe watching him in that very moment -

 

A pinprick of light flared up to his right, and Simon blinked in surprise. Several more tiny flashes followed the first, until a gleaming bronze candelabra had been lit entirely, casting a warm glow over the entrance hall. Simon’s gaze fell on the pale hand that held the candelabra aloft, following along its arm, until he was looking directly at the vampire who had agreed to shelter him.

 

“Raphael? What the hell -” Simon and Raphael both turned to see Lily standing at the bottom of a staircase that wound up and away from the entrance hall, disappearing into the darkness of an unknown second floor. She had changed into a long satin robe, and her dark hair was mussed about her face. She frowned at Simon’s bedraggled appearance, and at the anger clear in Raphael’s eyes. “What’s wrong?”

 

“Rogues,” Raphael said shortly. “They attacked Magnus’ hunter allies on the road. Two miles east. They may be in need of help.” His words were flat and clipped, diving straight to the point.

 

Lily nodded once, her gaze turning steely. “Understood. I’ll take Eloise and Daniel, sort all of it out.” Something about her tone made Simon thinking that “sorting it out” meant something decidedly undiplomatic.

 

“Good. Be back before sunrise.”

 

“Because I really needed the reminder?” Lily quipped, already turning to dart back up the staircase with a small smirk.

 

Raphael turned back to Simon, who was trying to settle his shivering. His gaze softens just a fraction, and he takes a slow step towards Simon, who barely holds himself back from flinching. Raphael nodded to the wooden stake still clutched in Simon’s hand. “You can put that down now. You won’t be needing it in here.”

 

Simon gave a jerky nod, but didn’t move the stake. He just stared at Raphael for a very long moment, feeling the heaviness of the carved oak in his grip. The weight was a reassurance, a reminder that he wasn’t helpless. He was inside a vampire’s home, but he was not helpless.

 

“Simon.” Raphael’s voice was soft when he spoke, not unlike Simon’s own hushed tone when approaching a wounded creature of some kind. He was very familiar with the overly calm, careful movements, the quiet voice Raphael was using. Simon knew when he was being treated like prey, cornered and desperate enough to do something stupid.

 

“Simon Lewis, you need to put down the stake, or you might hurt someone. Do you want to hurt anyone here?”

 

“No.” Simon’s voice was scratchy when he spoke, weak from shouting and the burning in his lungs. “I just -” He stopped, breathed. He just needed to breathe. “It’s fine.” He steeled his nerves, counting to three. Just put the stake down, that’s all he had to do.

 

He slowly forced his arm out, let go of the weapon. It clattered to the floor, rolled sadly until it hit the wall. His arm ached from the released tension of his muscles.

 

Raphael nodded, gesturing for Simon to follow him, walk further into the darkness of the castle. The prospect of wandering deeper into the shadows of a vampire den made Simon’s stomach clench, his free hand twitching with its need to rearm itself.

 

But as Raphael turned and moved towards the staircase, he began touching the tips of the lit candelabra to the candles ensconced on the walls, igniting them as he went. The soft light of the candles were left in Raphael’s wake, illuminating the entirety of the entrance hall, which Simon studied for a moment. The room was a gentle shade of cream, and bursts of vivid, jewel-bright colour shone out of the paintings that hung on every wall. The light had breathed some life into the place, and into Simon: he could feel the tightness around his chest ease, freeing his lungs. He took a breath, and noticed a familiar smokiness on the air.

 

“Lewis?” He looked back to Raphael, who was standing on the bottom of the staircase, frowning. “Are you alright?”

 

“I . . .” Simon sighed, shifting his satchel in his arms. “I don’t think so, no.”

 

“I didn’t think so, either.” Raphael nodded to the staircase behind him, beckoning Simon forward, away from the howling winds outside, and into the glowing candlelight of the vampiric castle. Simon couldn’t believe his own body as it began moving forward, following Raphael up the stairs.

 

A rock and a hard place, he supposed.

 

The stairs spiralled up past a second floor, Simon discovered, but it was the second floor that Raphael stopped at, leading Simon down a long, ornate hallway lined with even more paintings. Lily came bounding down the hall past them, the vampiress from the gala on her heels and wearing an expression of deep annoyance.

 

“Rogues,” she said to Raphael as they passed, rolling her eyes in disgust. “They’ll never learn, will they?”

 

“Apparently not,” Raphael agreed. He glanced over at Lily and the vampiress, who Simon could only assume was Eloise, for a moment. “Be careful. And tell Daniel to do the same.”

 

“We’ll tell him,” Lily promised, shooting Simon a smile as she went.

 

Raphael nodded and turned back around, guiding Simon deeper into the castle, through two passageways, and behind a tapestry, before arriving at a heavy oak door. He pushed it open, and let Simon into a small library.

 

“You should sit,” Raphael said, settling the candelabra on the mantlepiece of an enormous fireplace. He knelt down before it and, moments later, had coaxed a merrily crackling fire into the grate. His movements were cautious, Simon noticed, and he backed away from the fireplace as quickly as he could once it was burning.

 

_Vampires can die by fire_. Of course Raphael wanted to avoid it.

 

“Sit,” Raphael said again, turning to find Simon standing dumbly in the center of the room.

 

It was a truly beautiful library, with bookshelves climbing up the walls like vines; even more books were stacked on tables and chairs and on the floor. The firelight cast a gentle, warm light over the room, gleaming off of the burnished bronze candlesticks and clock atop the mantlepiece. The storm outside could be heard through the library’s two windows, which spanned much of its western wall. The freezing rain had picked up its pace, and now battered against the glass.

 

Simon relented under Raphael’s firm gaze and took a seat on a plush sofa near the fireplace, carefully placing his bag down next to him. The warmth of the fire was filling up the room, washing over Simon and easing the shivers that still wracked his body.

 

“Are you hurt?” Raphael asked, watching him with a careful eye.

 

Simon shrugged, and winced at the twinge of his aching shoulder. “Almost definitely. But just scrapes and bruises, I should be fine.” He paused, uncertain about his next question, before forcing himself to voice it. “How are you so calm around this much blood?”

 

Raphael raised his eyebrows, scanning up and down Simon; there was, indeed, a whole lot of blood on him. He huffed out a laugh, short but genuine in its warmth, as he stepped nearer to Simon. “I’m not a wild animal, Lewis. I have had time to learn how to be in its presence without losing control - I’ve been able to cultivate a fairly strong sense of will power.”

 

“Hmm.” Simon regarded Raphael warily, still unsure about how much to trust him. “And humans . . . you don’t mind having them as guests?”

 

“Guests?” Raphael laughed, louder and longer this time. “There are humans who stay here for weeks at a time - in fact, there might be one staying upstairs at this very moment. It comes with the territory of inter-species diplomacy.”

 

“. . . Right.”

 

Silence followed this information, Simon only just beginning to digest any of it - a vampire who has trained to be around blood, who has humans sleep in their den without draining them, who is not the violent killer that Simon remembers from sleepless nights in his mother’s bed, does not haunt small town streets when the sun goes down - when Raphael broke it once again. “I’ll be back in a moment - try not to stumble into another terrible accident in the meantime?”

 

Simon nodded, still trying to drag his thoughts out of the past. Raphael swept from the room, leaving the candelabra behind; he didn’t need it, Simon realized. He could see in the dark. He was a vampire.

 

Simon was in a vampire den.

 

He had barely begun to process his panic when Raphael returned, a bundle of blankets in his arms. Simon was curled up on the seat nearest the fire, satchel in his tight grip, watching the room with wide, anxious eyes. He wished he still had the stake, even if he had just tucked it into his bag.

 

“Lewis?” The fear on this face was evident, Simon knew, but hearing Raphael speak to him with such caution, such quiet comfort, was unnerving all the same.

 

“How many of you are there?” Simon asked, shoving the words out of himself; his throat protested, wanting to rest. “In the castle, I mean. How many vampires are here?”

 

“Maybe twelve at the moment,” Raphael replied. There was a small crinkle between his eyebrows, all the confusion he felt centered in that single spot on his expression. “Several remained at Magnus’ estate. May I ask why?”

 

“I just wanted to know.” His voice wavered, and Simon cursed himself for it.

 

Raphael set the bundle on the sofa, approaching Simon with that cautious stance again. Simon watched him, his mind racing. He was within reach of a poker; if he needed, he could wrench a log out of the fire, hope anyone approaching him burned. Vampires went up like tinder, right? That was where their dislike of fire came from? Simon was almost certain, recalling his research through the haze of his anxiety and pain.

 

“Were you planning on slaughtering us?” Raphael’s voice was hushed, his eyes locked onto Simon’s as he took another step forward. He was barely four feet from him; if he wanted, he could kill him from this distance easily.

 

Simon shook his head, his movements jerky. This wasn’t that small English town, and the shadows here were not murderers prowling the streets after dark. He kept trying to tell himself that, trying to fight off the tendrils of panic that were creeping over the expanse of his brain. He let out a shaky laugh, high-pitched and unnatural even to his own ears. “No, I - I wouldn’t get very far with that plan, would I?” He laughed again, his chest seizing with the effort, but he couldn’t seem to stop. “You’d - I’d last, what? Ten minutes?”

 

“We wouldn’t kill you, Lewis. You’re far too important - a friend of demon-hunters, a friend of Magnus Bane’s - killing you would only reverse any progress we’ve made with the treaties.”

 

Simon snorted. “Oh, wonderful. I’m glad my tenuous connection to Magnus Bane is the only thing keeping me alive.”

 

Raphael rolled his eyes, but clearly wasn’t finished. “We also wouldn’t have to kill you. You of all people should know about vampiric abilities - do you think we couldn’t stop you without resorting to murder? All we’d have to do is lock you in here -”

 

“I can pick a lock. I could break the door down.” Something in his tone made Simon feel a flash of indignance. He had escaped those rogue vampires earlier long enough to make it here, and Raphael thought he was too helpless to get through a single unguarded door?

 

Raphael’s eyes narrowed, and the crinkle between his brows deepened. Simon couldn’t help but notice it, wanted to smooth it out with his fingertip, unmarr the marble of his skin. “Then we’d catch you - you know vampires are unnaturally strong - and we’d simply have to tie you up, probably only by the wrists, to keep you from being a threat -” At these words Simon bristled, thought drawn sharply away from Raphael’s frown and towards the dismissiveness in his voice.

 

“And if I cut the rope?”

 

“Are you trying to justify your own murder to me?”

 

This question gave Simon pause, and he spent a whole minute searching for a reply before settling on the one he wanted to make absolutely clear to the vampire sitting in front of him. “. . . No.”

 

“Good, because it isn’t going to work. Senseless death is the least of our priorities or enjoyments.” Raphael said this so casually, so flippantly, that Simon let out a genuine laugh.

 

“Then what exactly are your _enjoyments_?”

 

Raphael raised an eyebrow at the question, but obliged Simon’s interrogation. “Art, recently. Lily’s also been experimenting with music - she’s dreadful at the cello, but making fantastic progress on the harpsichord. Books, too, as you can see. Then there’s cricket, gardening, blood sacrifices of baby animals - we’ve been favouring lambs and kittens lately.”

 

“Oh, very funny.”

 

A grin flashed across Raphael’s face, sharp and wicked, before his mouth settled into a calmer smirk. “Yes, I am. Do you still believe we’re going to murder you?”

 

“I . . .” Simon hesitated, taking stock of the hammering of his heartbeat, the panic coursing through his body. The knowledge of the clan’s proximity, the glint of Raphael’s canines, still sent a thrill of anxiety through him. “. . . at least a little.”

 

“Well, that’s better than ‘absolutely’, I suppose,” Raphael replied with a heavy, sarcastic sigh, before lifting one of the blankets he had brought, to reveal a set of clean, dry clothes tucked between the comforters. He held them out to Simon, who simply stared at the image for a moment: a vampire leader, dark and tall and mysterious, offering him, a simple human, a set of warm pyjamas. Then Simon hesitantly accepted them, taking them with his free hand, the other still clutching his bag.

 

“I believe you can put that down, now,” Raphael remarked, nodding to the satchel. “I promise we won’t steal anything in it.”

 

“That’s not what I was . . .” Simon sighed and relented, placing the bag on the floor and trying not to focus on the stressful emptiness of his hands. He accepted the clothes Raphael had held out for him to take. They were soft to the touch, and warm from being held between the blankets. In that moment, he had never felt something so wonderful.

 

“Could you maybe . . . turn around, or . . .?” Simon asked, standing warily before Raphael. He held the clothes away from himself, keeping them as dry as possible.

 

“Oh! Yes, absolutely,” Raphael said, gaze darting from Simon’s face and landing on a spot somewhere to the left of his shoulder. “I will - the hall. I’ll be in the hallway.”

 

“Wonderful.”

 

“Yes.”

 

And with a sweep of flowing black fabric and the flash of Raphael’s gleaming dark eyes, Simon was left alone in the library to change.   

 

Simon peeled off his soaked clothes and replaced them with the borrowed ones as quickly as possible; he yanked the shirt on violently, hating the sensation of being blind to the room he was in. There were at least twelve vampires in this castle, which was much fewer than he had seen on the streets as a child. Still, the threat a clan this size could pose . . . he shivered just thinking about it.

 

Once he had laid his own clothes out on the hearth in front of the fireplace to dry, and felt himself secure in the warm pyjamas he’d been given, Simon called out, “Raphael, I - you can come back in.” His voice sounded weak and uncertain, even to his own ears.

 

The door swung open, and Raphael stepped back inside, closing it behind him with a soft thump. He approached Simon slowly, and took a seat on the chair a few feet across from Simon’s sofa; Simon remained rooted to his spot on the carpet. “You’re warm, then?”

 

Simon nodded, and Raphael nodded in return. “Good. Excellent. I’m glad.”

 

Simon swallowed, glancing around the library before his gaze rested on Raphael, who was sitting primly with his legs crossed, eyes darting about the room as much as Simon’s were. “I’m sorry that I . . . well, that this is . . . I don’t want you to think I’m ungrateful, for all of this.” He took a deep breath, desperately trying to keep his nerves in check. “I just want to . . . to thank you. For helping my friends. I hope Lily and - and -”

 

“Daniel,” Raphael supplied, his voice smooth and quiet. “Lily, Daniel, and Eloise. And they should be just fine, if you were wondering about that.” He smiled, meeting Simon’s gaze for just a moment. “We’ve dealt with rogues before.”

 

“Oh . . . good. I’m glad.”

 

“I do have to ask, however,” Raphael continued, loudly enough to startle Simon.

 

Raphael simply laughed, sardonically, amusement glittering in his dark eyes. The sound was loud, and simultaneously relieved and electrified Simon’s nerves. “Is the great Simon Lewis, renowned supernatural scholar, really so prejudiced towards vampires?”

 

“No, I just . . . it’s - it’s _difficult_ , sometimes . . .” Simon stammered, his words seeming to trip off his tongue, clumsy and uncomfortable. “I mean, I just - I’m not - it’s not as though vampires are _harmless_ \- not to say you’re evil, or - or inherently terrible, but you do - you have _fangs_ \- and - and - renowned supernatural scholar?” He squeaked, baffled, as Raphael’s wording caught up to his racing mind.

 

“I had a flip through some of your works,” Raphael explained with a small wave of his hand, his sly smile growing as he watched Simon’s startled expression. “Lily has a few copies lying around. They’re really quite good - I particularly enjoyed the anthology of your explorations of London’s most haunted and hallowed sites.”

 

“Oh?” Simon breathed. Raphael the vampire had read his books. This was real life, and he had to just live with it. Fantastic.

 

“My curiosity is piqued, though, Lewis,” Raphael continued. “You’ve written about werewolves, ghosts, demons, warlocks, angels, witches, the Loch Ness Monster - nearly every supernatural being or creature imaginable. But hardly a word about vampires. Why is that?”

 

Simon swallowed; anxious butterflies flitted around in his stomach. How did one approach something so . . . messy? His memories, his fear of the Night’s Children, came from a place that Simon knew should not be broached with those in the supernatural society, let alone a vampire. He reached wildly around in his brain, searching for a way to explain that didn’t elicit pity or outrage. He had been met with both in the past, and wasn’t keen on repeating the experience while stuck in a vampire’s den.   

 

“I grew up in Cotgrave.” There was nothing for it: the truth of the matter would come out eventually, whether through Magnus or Clary or Jace, all of whom were well aware of Simon’s long, messy history with vampires. Ripping the bandage off, giving the truth over as quickly and cleanly as he could, seemed like the least painful option. There was a beat of silence that followed this declaration, however, that gave him pause, and Simon, in all his need to clarify and over-explain his thoughts, hastily added, “You know, in England, in Nottinghamshire, the town with -”

 

“I . . . I know about Cotgrave.” Raphael’s interruption stemmed the flood of rambling that threatened to burst free of Simon, and he held it back with great relief. “It’s one of the more . . .   _contentious_ parts of vampiric history.”

 

“Contentious?” Simon echoed, scoffing slightly. “I think I’d use a word a bit stronger than that.”

 

“Well, I mean -” Raphael seemed frustrated, his words stuttered and sharp. “They won’t listen - they’ve never been interested in treaties.”

 

“No, I don’t suppose they would be.”

 

Raphael stood, eyes darting to Simon’s face. “You’re still bleeding,” he said, words spilling awkwardly into the pervasive silence. “On your head, just there.”

 

Simon gasped, clapping his hands over his forehead. “Sorry!”

 

“No, I - oh my goodness, Simon, you don’t need to apologize.” Raphael laughed, warm and uneven; the sound startled the butterflies in Simon’s stomach. “Again, I’m not a wild animal. I can stand this. I just think you ought to do something about it - I believe we have some cloth somewhere . . .”

 

As Raphael tinkered about in the library, rifling through the drawers of a nearby desk, Simon watched him with a kind of curious disbelief. There was something so _normal_ about him in this setting, even with all his dramatics and vampiric dark vision. The aloof, inhuman vampire Simon had met at Magnus’ gala had retreated somewhat, given way to the laughing, fire-starting, human-sheltering vampire before him.

 

“So . . . how long have you been a vampire?”

 

Raphael straightened, glancing over his shoulder at Simon with raised eyebrows. “Isn’t that a bit of a personal question?”

 

“Well, I mean - maybe I should start writing about vampires. Maybe I’d like to give it a chance.”

 

“Oh?” Raphael gave him a half-smile before turning back to his quest, rummaging through a set of shelves. “Then . . . a long time ago.”

 

“I don’t get specifics?”

 

“. . . let’s say I’m older than plumbing, but younger than British colonization.”

 

“That’s . . . quite the time period.”

 

“Yes, it was.” Raphael turned back to Simon, having found some cloth in a desk drawer. “We don’t really have bandages, given the vampiric healing, so this is going to have to do.”

 

“Thank you - it’ll work fine, you really didn’t have to -”

 

“Simon?” Raphael was smirking again. “Relax. It’s only a cloth.”

 

“Right.” Simon nodded, flushing. “Just a cloth. Understood. Great.”

 

“Has anyone ever told you that you talk a great deal?”

 

“Oh, lots of people, over and over again. I like to think it’s part of my charm.”

 

“Your charm?” Raphael echoed, his smile growing as he watched Simon flush even deeper. “Hmmm . . . you might be right about that.”

 

“What?”

 

“Sit, Simon,” Raphael said, still smiling in that smugly feline way of his; he placed his hands gently on Simon’s shoulders and guided him backward to perch on the sofa.

 

“So I have a charm?” Simon looked up at Raphael, following his gaze as he took a seat on the sofa next to him.

 

Raphael chuckled, folding the cloth into a neat square. “Yes, Simon, I believe you do. May I?” He gestured to Simon’s forehead, eyebrows raised in question. Simon, uncertain of what he meant, gave a slow nod.

 

Raphael raised his hand, brushing the messy curls of Simon’s hair away from his face with a feathery touch; his fingers were smooth and chilled where they met Simon’s skin. “Are you nervous right now?” he asked, lifting the folded cloth to Simon’s forehead.

 

“I - well, I . . . umm . . . yes?” Simon hardly dared to breathe too deeply, keeping still as a statue as Raphael dabbed the cloth across the cut. “Are you sure this is okay? Because I can do it -”

 

“It’s fine.” Raphael frowned; his eyes were trained intently on Simon’s forehead, resolutely not flicking down to meet his eyes. “You wouldn’t be able to see it, anyway.”

 

“Mirror?”

 

Raphael huffed out a laugh, pressing the fabric firmly against the cut. “There’s that charm.” He took one of Simon’s hands in his own, lifting it to Simon’s forehead to hold the cloth to his skin. “There. Hold it for a minute, it should stop bleeding shortly.” Simon’s hand tingled when Raphael dropped his grip on it.

 

“Thank you.” His words were hushed; whispering felt right in such an atmosphere, where even their laughter was quiet, rushed breaths of amusement. They were sitting close enough that he had felt Raphael’s last chuckle on the skin of his cheek, wintery cold.

 

“I don’t - I don’t think you’re a murderer,” Simon said. “I understand that you aren’t, that Lily isn’t, or - or -”

 

“Eloise and Daniel,” Raphael supplied.

 

“Right. Sorry.”

 

“No, don’t worry - Lily leaves quite the impression.”

 

“Yes, she definitely does.” Simon let himself laugh, loosened the knots around his chest for a moment. “But I know she isn’t - Lily isn’t evil. Or you.”

 

“ _I’m_ not evil?” Raphael repeated, grinning wickedly. “This is the first I’m hearing about this.”

 

“Oh, you’re hilarious,” Simon shot back sarcastically, trying to hide his own small smile. “I just wanted you to know that I . . . I know, objectively, that you aren’t evil. I don’t believe that you are. Just so you know.”

 

“Well, thank you, Simon. Although don’t go telling anyone that - I have a reputation to uphold, after all.”

 

“What, that you’re not a scheming evildoer, and that you secretly play cricket and collect art?”

 

“Yes, exactly. No one can know that Raphael Santiago has ever so much as touched a croquet mallet - it would destroy at least half of my credibility.”

 

“Hold on . . . Raphael _Santiago_?”

 

“. . . Yes.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Simon’s limbs felt frozen with surprise. He could do little more than stare at Raphael - Raphael _Santiago_ \- in disbelief.

 

“Were you familiar with my . . . reputation?” Raphael asked, seemingly desperate for any means to break the sudden silence between them.

 

“Magnus - Magnus has mentioned some, you know, some things,” Simon said, tripping over his words again. He couldn’t seem to stop staring at Raphael, whose profile was so different from the one he had expected. “But you - Raphael Santiago is one of the most widely feared vampire clan leaders on this side of the hemisphere! He’s lead wars, and won them, and he’s dangerous enough to make Camille Belcourt nervous about confronting him! He’s - well, he’s -”

 

“Me.” Raphael shrugged, the most inelegant movement Simon had seen him make since meeting him. His posture hung awkwardly, as though he would’ve liked nothing more than to shrink himself into the sofa pattern. “I suppose you are familiar with my public persona, then.”

 

“I . . . yes?” Simon shakes his head, trying to clear his thoughts. “I just thought you’d be . . .”

 

“Older?”

 

“Scarier.”

 

Raphael didn’t laugh, as Simon was hoping he would, but he saw the hint of a smile that played on his lips. “Am I not frightening, Simon?”

 

“Only when you want to be, I suppose.”

 

“Hmm.” Raphael nodded, taking Simon’s hand in his once again; he had dropped it from his cut sometime during his surprised rambling. Raphael lifted it back to his forehead, gently pressing it to the skin. He didn’t let go for a long moment. “You aren’t wrong. I was trying to be intimidating at the gala.”

 

“Why?”

“I need to keep up appearances,” he said, rolling his eyes. “There’s only a handful of beings who are aware of my . . . unguarded self. There’s a reason for that.”

 

“Understandable.” Simon wished he wouldn’t let go of his hand, but there was nothing to say that could stop him without making things strange, so he let the coolness of Raphael’s hand fall away from the warmth of his own.

 

“Just one question,” Raphael said. “How many vampire clan leaders named Raphael did you think there were in Europe?”

 

“There could’ve been a few!” Simon retorted, indignance colouring his voice. “I think there is actually one in Venice right now - oh, don’t laugh at me!”

 

But Raphael didn’t stop laughing. He just leaned his head back against the back of the sofa, the pale column of his neck exposed and illuminated in the firelight. Simon sighed, rolling his eyes.

 

“You’re such a _child_ , you know - does anybody know that?”

 

Raphael tilted forward, watching Simon with amusement still shining in his eyes. “No, most people don’t.” He spoke the words gently and carefully; it felt as though he were handing them to Simon. As though they were a secret.

 

Simon looked at Raphael, and he smiled.

 

* * *

 

 

 

The brink of dawn arrived the next morning, the indigo of the night sky melting into a gentle, hazy periwinkle blue. Raphael, who had begun pacing around the library around three, leapt to the grand windows in a sudden, fluid movement that startled Simon out of his dozing on the sofa.

 

“Is it them?” Simon asked, sitting up and letting the blanket fall from around his shoulders.

 

“Yes.” The relief in Raphael’s voice was a palpable thing, and Simon reminded himself to thank him at least eighteen more times before leaving. “They’re coming up the walkway - all of them.”

 

“Oh, thank God,” Simon murmured, standing and stretching. The fireplace now held mere gloaming embers, but the warmth was still radiating throughout the room, wrapping Simon’s exposed figure in its embrace.

 

Striding down the hallways and staircases to the main doors of the castle, Simon studied the mussed, dark hair on the back of Raphael’s head, the magnetism of his silhouette. He wanted to memorize him, if only for a little while. Something to hold with him, until their next meeting - because, having dabbled in the supernatural for as long as he had, Simon could feel a fated meeting when he experienced one.

 

“Simon?” Raphael glanced at him over his shoulder when they reached the doors. “Can you do me a favour?”

 

“Yes, I can - well, what favour exactly?”

 

Raphael smiled, small and wicked and dangerous in a way that didn’t leave Simon panicked. “Do you mind not telling them where you got the clothes? I want to watch them guess.”

 

“I’m revoking my earlier opinion,” Simon replied, failing to fight the grin on his own face. “You’re maybe somewhat evil. Just a bit.”

 

“Is that so?”

 

“Yes,” Simon said, as Raphael swung the doors open. “I believe it’s part of your charm.”  


End file.
